Yogi on Life, the Universe and who lives on Wall Street.

So I'm walking to work last night and a mature gentleman in a leather jacket asks me if I can buy him sugar and butter. He's holding up DVDs in exchange. "I have oatmeal," he says. "You can't have oatmeal without butter and sugar." He has salt and pepper Afro-curls showing under his leather cap and a huge grin revealing no upper teeth. "I know it's embarrassing," he says, smiling, "but I have no teeth and oatmeal is all I can eat..." "It's not embarrassing," I say and immediately think "I don't think he meant embarrassing for me", proceeding to help him with his sugar and butter problem. I tell him he can keep the DVDs. Then I hear the sounds of a trumpet. I have my camera with me. There is a woman across the street dressed in high class, see-and-be-seen white night-club dress with high black boots and is walking a dog. "Strange attire for dog-walking," I think, and consider filming her, but I turn back on 39th Street and go film Yogi, the trumpet playing prophet on Seventh Avenue. He has a talent for putting everything in a nut shell. Besides, he exerts a certain gravitational field with his trumpet sound...